Mama opened her eyes. ‘Whatever is the matter, Leo? Has something happened?’ she asked as she yawned and rubbed her eyes.

I thrust the letter in front of her. ‘Look at the postmark, Mama. It’s from England!’

The word worked like smelling salts. Mama was upright in a second. ‘Give it to me. Let me see.’

I passed her the envelope and she studied it as if it were a precious object.

To us, it was.

Then she pursed her lips and placed the letter carefully on the bed. ‘Coffee first,’ she said.

‘But, Mama!’

‘Coffee first,’ she insisted. ‘There is no need to run headlong into this. I want to be awake first. I will need all the energy I can summon if I am to deal with the disappointment of a refusal.’

Mama was right, and she had reminded me of the most likely outcome. It had happened to almost everyone we knew. Every Jewish family I knew had only one aim nowadays: get out of Austria any way possible.

A friend of Mama’s who had managed to hide enough money to pay for an advert in a British newspaper had even advertised herself as a domestic servant. She showed us the advert last week.

‘Austrian woman, highly qualified teacher, seeks work as domestic maid in an English home. Please help. Desperate.’

She had so far had no replies. No takers. Just another Jew that no one wanted.

So yes, Mama was right. It was best to put off the moment where our last hope – our only hope – was gone.

We managed to hold it off for half an hour while Mama drank her coffee and I washed in the bathroom sink. We never used the shower any more. Our hot water had long been cut off and a quick wash in the sink was more bearable than standing under a stream of cold water.

Then we sat together at the kitchen table, the letter between us.

Mama nodded, as though making a deal with herself. ‘Open it,’ she said, handing the letter to me.

‘Me?’

‘I can’t bear to read the words myself. I will know from your face what they say.’

I could almost hear Papa’s voice. You’re the man of the house now. It made me bold. ‘Okay,’ I said, as I slid my finger along the edge and pulled the envelope open.

ELSA

Mutti and Vati have been whispering again. Like they did just before we left Vienna. They think Otto and I don’t know about it. They think we are asleep in our beds, but we’re not. We’re crouched at the top of the stairs, straining our ears to catch an occasional word or phrase and trying to piece them together.

‘Just as bad…’

‘Never have left…’

‘Won’t come to that…’

‘Desert our own children…’

‘Transport…’

‘No, never. Don’t ask me that…’